The Season of Shay and Dane (12 page)

shay

“Shay. . . I’m so
sorry. . .,”
Uncle Elliott’s words are whispered
privately, tenderly, in the busy airport as he puts one arm around my waist,
reassuringly supporting me and reaching for the luggage from my hand. 
“I
told your father I’d pick you up. . . the funeral director is there. . . well,.
. . he’ll be waiting. . . let’s just get you home to him.”

Funeral director.
My lethargic body weighs into his, as his grip around my waist feels more
stabilizing, and I’m guided to the waiting car.

How did this happen?

Why did this happen?

The trees flash past
blurring more my cloudy wet vision. There are no words exchanged. Just the
sound of my father’s voice and a statistic not meant to be my mom’s,
not her
.
The odds were low. Non-existent nearly. They didn’t want to worry me. No
need. Keep her in school she said. Focused. Heart stent’s a normal procedure.
Normal. Enough.
And then. . .
blood clot. . . heart attack.
My
breathing staggers and I force my head further right, looking out of the window,
squeezing the moist clump of tissues balled in my hand.

dane

Dammit!

She was happy—I’m sure
of it.

I slap closed the
textbook on the desk, and slide it down into my backpack, yanking it up from
the floor.

One hour. One
hour—waiting, watching—there’s no way I could’ve missed her again today.

I fumble the idea
around in my head. I’ll skip lunch—go to the biology building—go inside—try to
find her.
Yeah. Have to. I’ve got to know.

The campus is packed.
Groups of people stand around carelessly, passively, blocking every bit of
concrete alongside the street teaming with slow moving buses, inching at a
crawl for their stops and full crosswalks.

Now that I’ve made up
my mind my patience frays, and I doggedly stick to a straight path through the
crowds, hearing grunts and profanities snapped at my back making my way.

“Shay, Shay Bennett,” I
repeat. The impatient irritation in my voice gets met with a look over the top
of her glasses. She reluctantly slides a directory in front of her and opens it.
“Thanks,” I muster, not wanting to cause a problem.

“Shay Bennett. 3rd
floor. Room 304,” she releases. I turn away looking for an elevator, or
stairwell sign. “Hey, are you a student hear?” she calls at my back, headed to
the stairs around the corner. “You shouldn’t be just wondering—without a
purpose—. You know—you might need an appointment!”

The door slams closed
behind me, and I take three steps at a time to level 3, catching a breath and
opening the door.

I’ve got to be quiet.

Room 301, 302, I keep
walking. I can see students in the classrooms. 303. There’s not a reflection of
light from the glass on the next door. 304. It’s dark. The note taped to the
door says:
Out of office. See front desk.

What’s happened?

Front desk?

I look around, making
my way back up the hall, not having noticed the small waiting area in front of
the windows looking out over the campus, with an open door to a receptionist
counter. I walk in.

No one.

Shit—it’s
lunch—probably gone for an hour.

My agitation kicks off
even more.
I’ll wait. Right here.
I turn to eye the chairs I see back through
the doorway.

“Can I help you?”

I spin around to the
voice. A slap of hands down the counter dragging herself in a rolly chair,
slides to the center in view.
I recognize her.
Before I can get any
words out. . .

“Dane. . . right?” She
searches my eyes, her half-critical expression easing.

“Yeah,. . . you’re
Shay’s friend. You were there Sunday.”

She gets up from the
chair, coming through a doorway from behind the station, while I stay looking
at her.

She slightly gestures
her head for me to follow her to the chairs outside of the office.

“. . . About Shay. . .”

My mind can’t take in
the news she just told me. It was kind of her—I’m grateful for it.

The phone from the office
rings and she gets up to leave.

I slide to the edge of
the seat and rest my forehead in the palms of my hands.

God. . . Shay. . .

shay

I can’t remember if the
sun shined today, or the names of the faceless people speaking softly and
sympathetically to me now. As grateful as I am for us not to be alone in this
echoing house, for me, they are still guests in it and I feel some
responsibility to be a hostess. But I’m tired. I’m tired, and I’m broken. And
everywhere I look the rooms have the same view, people dressed in rigid black
funeral clothing, talking quietly among themselves. . . and filling every space.

I begin to feel the
rooms spinning in slow motion, as if I’m part of a colorless scene, in a
children’s revolving light box, going round and round, until my eyes finally
come to rest on my dad in his red chair facing the garden. I don’t think he’s
moved from it since our hands parted, walking through the front door two hours
ago.

There is someone
sitting beside him. As I get nearer, through the crowd of people, I can see
it’s Uncle Elliott. A small plate of uneaten bean casserole and a half full cup
of coffee sit on the adjoining table between them. I lay my hand on dad’s
resting on the armrest. As he looks up at me he forces an efforted smile, and
the strain in his face grips me. Tears fill my eyes and I try to speak. He
squeezes my hand in both of his. Before the tears flow and the pulsing force of
withheld sobs bursts forth from my throat uncontrollably, I bend down to him
and whisper as best I can,
“I’m going upstairs.”

I close the door behind
me and lean my back against it.
Who makes up the rules of life—of death?
By now the tears are coming faster and the torrent of unfairness lashes about
in my mind. I angrily force off the black clothes and rush for my bed gripping
my pillow, burying my face down hard into it. Every controlled emotion of the
day unleashes itself into a frenzied sob, until I’m convulsively gasping for
air.

dane

I push the door shut on
the locker, not walking away yet, just motionless.
Five days.
I lower my
head a minute, taking time to collect myself from the long practice. . . and
thinking of her.

“Good luck out there
tomorrow.”

I sense the comment’s
meant for me, haven’t been paying attention, but I think I’m the only one left
hanging around the locker room, anyway. I turn to see Kip posting a reminder
schedule of massage times on the cork board.

“Thanks.”

“You okay?” He passes
by me, standing in the doorframe, checking.

“Sure. . . just winding
down.” I give a nod of reassurance.

“How ‘bout that leg? Giving
you any more problems?”

He’s got to be one of
the most decent people the athletic department has, especially compared to the
tool they signed as coach for the next couple of years. “Now and again, push
past it pretty much though.”

“You think it needs to
be looked at?” A little concern flickers in his expression.

“Nah, not a muscle, can
tell that, just some phantom thing now and again—probably getting old.”

“Doubt that.” He pats
the side of my arm as he starts to head off.

It’s not a muscle. He’s
right though, if it gets any worse, and when I have time, I’ll have someone take
a quick look at it.

shay

I listen to Uncle
Elliott’s support.
They’ll come out. See me. Won’t be long. . . he promises.
. .   He’ll help dad get things in order.

The long drive to the
airport sounded like the same words over, and over again, echoing carefully,
sparingly between my father and him.
You need to get back to school, for
your good. Your mom would’ve wanted it that way. . . please. Don’t lose your
place. Don’t worry. . . Don’t. . .
The words link together, until the hum
of them leaves me.

Everything’s fractured.

I close my eyes
remembering.

She would’ve wanted it
that way.

I should’ve been home.

*
* *

I reach forward and pay
the fare for the cab, not moving, just waiting for him to get the one suitcase
from the trunk I left here with two weeks ago.

The apartment is still.

My blanket is strewn
across the bed, hanging off of the edge onto the floor. Things are frozen in
place, the way they were on that night the call came. I release the handle of
the luggage and let my sweater fall from my wrist, sifting down my leg, and
walk over to my bed, sitting just on the edge.

I blink back tears to
see my satchel stuffed up against the wall by my dresser and the front door.
There’s an envelope on the floor.
Jenny’s handwriting. A card slid under the
door.
I walk to it and bend down, but instead reach for the bag and search
inside for the pocket, and that small folded piece of paper.

His voice is kind when
he answers.

“. . . please come. .
.”

dane

I turn off the light
and turn to lock the door.

The sun is setting and
the evening is quiet. Only two words. But they were the two words I’ve been
waiting to here.

The four blocks there
will steady me. . . I’ll need to be calm for her.

She’s standing by the
front door of the house.

She looks so frail.

I follow her inside.

As she turns to close
the door I see her fragility in the tremble of her hands, the sadness that
consumes her, the tears escaping her cast down eyes now. I reach for her, gently
lifting her up, cradling her small frame secure in my arms, and carry her to
the bed. I pull the blanket around her, tucking it to her body and lie on the
outside of it. I listen to her breathing, and slowly smooth her hair, holding
her, not letting go. . . never letting go.